


You Don't Know How You've Saved Me

by AwkwardAndUncomfortable



Series: Soulmark AU's [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: #SosNotSos, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Cheese, Christmas Angst, Christmas Feels!, Christmas Fluff, Clint Barton & Darcy Lewis Friendship, Deaf Clint Barton, Discrimination, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Kid Phil Coulson, Lil' bit of angst, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Multi, POV Phil Coulson, Self Harm, So much angst, Suicide Attempt, lot of angst, soulmark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5397482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardAndUncomfortable/pseuds/AwkwardAndUncomfortable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Soulmate universe, being born without a soulmark is a fate worse than death.</p><p>Philip Coulson is born without a Soulmark.</p><p>******<br/>Christmas soulmark story! Incredibly angsty and a little bit sad, but it gets happier! Three chapter fic and I hope you enjoy reading!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phil

**Author's Note:**

> Very angsty soulmark story, it's going to be one of three chapters and contains graphic descriptions of attempted suicide and self harm. If that will trigger you or you're sensitive to that, please don't read any further than this.
> 
> Also, this is literally just me rambling, so if I've offended you or written something incorrectly about self-harm, please let me know and I'll change it.
> 
> Anything you recognize doesn't belong to me  
> Anyways! Thanks for reading, anything you recognize doesn't belong to me and I hope you enjoy!

Phil had never seen the point of Christmas. Not even when he was young. 

The gifts.

The cards.

The decorations.

Even the tree seemed like a waste of space. Just another thing that he would never have.

To Phil, December was a month of being cold as well as hungry, a time to frantically stuff newspaper into the bottom of his shoes and pray that the snow didn't get in through the holes. A time to press his nose against toy shop windows and stare as gleeful children dragged their parents after them, grabbing anything and everything that took their fancy. A time to stare at groups of people wrapped up in their winter's finest and sing their hearts out about joy and happiness, whilst Phil never understood any of it.

But most of all, Christmas was a time when families, lovers, complete strangers came together in celebration and joy.

Everybody had somebody.

Except Phil.

As a child he had been hurt by the idea. Why did Santa ignore him? Where were his presents? Clean clothes and full stomach? When he was only small, still bone-thin and hopeful, he had believed that he was a bad kid, and strived to be nicer, kinder... Better.

But it never worked.

Phil was always stuck in the gutter, a scrawny, dirty child in ripped clothes that people preferred not to think about.

It didn't help that he was blank.

Soulmarks were the very fabric of society, everything was shaped and built around the idea that each person would have at least one person that was their other half, the connecting puzzle piece to their soul. That person's first words were scrawled over your skin in the darkest of blacks that lit up in a fabulous gold when the words were uttered.

A person's one ultimate goal in life was to meet their other half.

He'd heard the stories, apparently you knew instantly when your words were spoken, a flush of heat sliding through your body followed by a rush of endorphins. Some people laughed. Some cried. Some fainted. Some ran away, never to be seen again.

He never believed it. The Soulmark was just another creation, fabricated by the big companies in order to sell more Valentine gifts. A myth, nothing more, nothing less. But the fact that he didn't have one still picked at the edge of his conciousness like an exposed nerve.

He was blank.

Blank; the foulest and most underhanded of insults, designed to tear somebody down to their knees with one violent spray of words that flew through the air like bullets. It was a deadly, taboo word. One that was whispered in secret in only the most private of places but was still uttered behind a hand just in case.

If you were a blank, you had no soulmate, you were soulless. You were the Devil or even worse.

Blanks were harassed, bullied, abused and murdered in the night. Sometimes even in broad daylight. But nobody would help a blank, to them, you weren't even a dog. To them, you were less than nothing.

Meaningless.

Insignificant.

Useless.

Even at Christmas, Blanks weren't cared for. Most charities exclusively ignored them, shelters denied them and kitchens turned them away with a fist, or a spray of vile words if you were lucky. Blanks were preyed upon by everybody else.

But they were rare. Only one in about a thousand were born without a soulmark, one in a million that didn't develop one in the next month. The soulmark appeared on the skin at the same time as the birth of your soulmate. Most were born at exactly the same time as their soulmate, fewer were born a few hours, sometimes days before their other half.

If one didn't develop within the month, you were branded as a blank.

In each main city there was at least one orphanage dedicated to blank children given up at birth. Phil was presented to the one exactly a month old, mouth opened wide in cry as he was handed over with a barely disguised shudder of disgust.

He grew up there until he was six, when he was woken with a jerk late in the night, in the final hours of Christmas Eve. One of the stern teachers had yanked him out of bed, along with all the other children. Most were bawling, distressed cries flying from their mouths and searing into his ear drums, partially deafening him. They were ushered out of the building, clinging to each other as they embraced the cold, damp street.

Phil still woke up from nightmares of six year old him clinging to his teddy bear, bare feet soaked from the damp street, shivering in the wind as he stared at the orphanage lighting up the night sky as flames slowly engulfed the building. The fire licked at the sky as it burned fiercely, destroying the one place he had to call home.

That night orphanages for Blank children all over the country were lit up in flame as political groups moved to have Blanks euthanized and started by destroying their homes, killing twenty children in the process and forcing hundreds more into a life on the streets. Including Phil. 

The movement was branded as a terrorist attack, but no suspects were ever convicted. It was only when Phil was older that he had realized exactly how much had been covered up by the police, but he still couldn't do anything. Blanks didn't have many - if any - rights.

That was the first year that he bitterly wished himself a merry Christmas.

The tradition continued every year as he took every discrimination, mistreatment and abuse that was dished out to him. Every Christmas was spent the same.

Cold, hungry and alone.

At eleven, Phil hurt himself for the first time. All the harsh words, spitefulness and anger seemed to be embody itself in the sharp edge of an abandoned pencil sharpener. When it sliced across his skin, he felt all of his worries bleed away. It was a twisted sort of release, but it was all he had.

At twelve, his arms were completely covered, so he started on his left thigh.

At thirteen, it was his right thigh.

At fourteen, it was his stomach.

By the time he was fifteen, Phil had had enough.

His entire life he had been told that he wasn't as important as others, that he was a mistake, that he was the Devil. 

When your told something enough, you begin to see it as truth. Which is what Phil did.

His figure was gaunt, bony, and heavy bags hung beneath his face, which only emphasized the way his bones protruded unnaturally from his cheeks. He was spiralling into deep depression, hating himself as well as the entire world.

So on Christmas eve, the same year that Phil had turned fifteen and had found a temporary home in an abandoned house with a dozen leaks that were rapidly freezing into icy puddles that littered the floor, he took a swig from a bottle of vodka, stolen from a local convenience store that knew him by sight now, and stared at the knife.

It was a Swiss army knife. Expensive. Phil had never run so hard in his life when he had pick pocketed it from the man that seemed impossibly tall and impossibly bulky. He idly scratched off some dried blood from the edge with his thumb, careful not to cut himself.

He cracked a wry smile at the thought. The pain of a cut wouldn't affect him any more, that much he was sure. More sure of that fact than of anything in his life.

He took another swig, wincing as the alcohol burned his throat, eyes watering as it settled in his stomach and lit it on fire.

Phil adjusted himself, back aching from leaning against the hard wall for so long. He was sat in the barren living room of the house, back against the wall and slouched on the floor. The house was sparse, empty of furniture and love. It was cold and frost had begun to form on the inside and outside of the windows, giving the house a strange, eerie light as the moonlight shone through, casting the room in an ethereal glow.

He wore a dirty pair of jeans, the amount of holes rival only to the amount in his shirt. A big duffle coat shrouded his lean frame and black fingerless gloves sheathed his hands. An old scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck and he lazily reached up and yanked it off. Gripping the knife tightly, he breathed in and raised it to his neck, flinching when the cold steel pressed into his skin.

He breathed in sharply. Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The knife fell from his grip, landing in his lap whilst his teeth clenched.

"Can't even do this right..." He growled, fingers curling into fists as he slammed them into the ground. Breathing in and out again, Phil picked up the knife.

This time he pressed it to his neck with no hesitation, restraining himself from flinching. He sighed deeply, glancing around him and taking in the final thing his eyes would ever see. He let out a slightly maniacal laugh when the cold, empty room stared back. If that wasn't a metaphor for his life, he didn't know what was.

He pressed the knife harder into his throat, slicing his skin shallowly. He felt blood trickle down his throat and into his coat, he throat flexed beneath the steel as he swallowed.

Taking a final deep breath, Phil was about to press harder when he suddenly felt an excruciating pain curl down his wrists. The knife hit the ground with a clatter as the pain flashed up and down his arms, searing into his flesh like a burn. Flailing his arms, he struggled to yank his arms out of the coat sleeves. He leapt to his feet with a cry, he tore at the coat, desperate to see what was happening to him.

The pain became agonising, the worse thing he had ever felt in his short, short life. 

All of a sudden it stopped. The pain left as quickly as it had come and Phil was left standing in the middle of the room, half a bottle of vodka leaking over the floor and his arms half-caught in his coat. His shoulders sagged in relief, but he still quickly shucked his coat, too distracted to notice the cold.

When he saw his arms, he swayed on his feet, everything becoming blurry as darkness tinged his vision. The ground came rushing up to meet him and Phil surrendered to unconsciousness.

******

When he woke up, it was to dried blood on his neck and shirt, a bloodstained knife, a ripped coat, an icy puddle of vodka and a killer headache.

But what he noticed was the two neat scrawls of black sentences on the inner wrist of each arm.

"Merry Christmas." He murmured, tears pricking at his eyes as he gazed at his arms in wonder. "Merry Christmas."


	2. Clint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas had never really mattered to Clint; it had never really had a place in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, enjoy :)

Christmas had never really mattered to Clint; it had never really had a place in his life.

He knew that most families spent the month of December decorating their homes, sending cards and spreading merriment. It was different for Clint though, for the circus too.

In the Circus, life was different. Even time was different.

There was no distinction between days, just one performance and the next. In the tent - the massive sprawling tent with gorgeous stars painted onto the ceiling that seemed to stretch into space - there was no concept of night and day, or the hours between. It was like a whole other world, once you set foot inside.

A world of wonder, amazement and everyday impossibilities made possible in front of your very eyes.

Of course as a young boy no older than five, Clint had sold popcorn and other cheap food during the intermission, but whilst the performance was on, he got to sit beneath the stands and watch though the parted feet of the audience. He sat there, a finger over his lips to refrain from gasping in delight as he stared, starry eyed, at the beauty, the bold and the downright dangerous that the ordinary carnies made into an astounding performance.

It was at that age that he had scrambled from beneath the stands and darted over to his father, who was lazily packing away shoddy merchandise that he sold at fifteen bucks a pop. He stared up at him with an excited grin, yanking at his father's sleeve.

His father was a tall man, with broad shoulders that might have been attractive if not for the years and years of smoking, drinking and overeating. As such, he had sallow, pale skin, a stomach that hung well over his belt and greasy hair that hung in limp tendrils around his face which only emphasized the narrowness of his beady eyes.

Now, he was wearing his best carnival costume, which was to paint his face even paler and add in a huge red lipped smile that matched his big red nose. His hair was hidden beneath a large wig and Clint knew that he had a small silver flask hidden in the front pocket of his purple suit. He was completely banned from ever even looking at it.

He did it once, and the bone of his arm had taken six whole weeks to set. His mother had to take to a big white building that smelt funny with people dressed in strangely coloured pyjamas. Suffice to say, Clint had never tried that again.

"What ya want?" His father snapped, leaning down to hit his hand away after a cursory glance to make sure that none of the audience were still lingering. There weren't. Only exhausted carnies still in full costume and slowly packing away their various acts.

"I wanna be in the circus!" Clint said happily, 

"Oh really?" His father leaned down with a tight smirk, one that young Clint would soon learn to recognise as dangerous.

"Yeah, I wanna be in one a' the acts."

His father's smirk turned into a glare. "Then whatta' you askin' me for? Fuck off and ask somebody who will take ya'. Go talk to ya' brother." With a vicious shove, Clint quickly hurried away to ask Barney.

"Barney!" He shouted, dodging the glaring performers and running over to his older brother. Clint loved his brother and wanted to be just like him when he grew up. Barney was a roustabout and helped set up the big poles for the tight rope acts and also for most the other acts.

His brother looked up from packing away a large selection of costumes with a sneer. "What ya' want?" He asked shortly. He was five years older and didn't need his snot nosed little brother running up to him every five minutes.

"I wanna work wit' ya'! I wanna work in the circus!"

He leaned down to stare at Clint's face with a serious expression, Clint instantly changed his to match his brothers'.

"You sure 'bout that? You really wanna' work wit' me?" He nodded eagerly. "It's gonna be hard work and you can't slack off." Barney warned, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "You still wanna work wit' me?"

Clint nodded eagerly again.

"Good." He straightened up and nodded towards the huge pile of costumes and the hanging rack. "Hang all o' those up and take 'em over to the Psychic, she'll tell ya' what to do." With a final glance, Barney marched away wearing a vicious smirk.

Clint dove into the job quickly, picking up all of the costumes and hanging them up quickly before grabbing the massive rack and wheeling it out of the tent. The rack was much bigger than him, and it was hard work to drag it over all of the rocks and ruts in the field that the tent was centred in.

Behind the tent was a mess of caravans, tents and temporary housing that was easily moved and constructed by the carnies. Clint dragged the rack through the field, ignoring the beautiful dancers that swore at him when he got in the way, the tight rope walker that smacked the back of his head for not watching where he was going and the drunken acrobats that hooted in laughter at him.

Eventually he made it over to the Psychic's caravan, and with a sigh of relief he knocked on the door. 

"Come in." A sultry voice shouted, so he swung open the door and stepped in, leaving the costumes outside.

He coughed immediately, the air thick with a mixture of incense and smoke. He glanced around, through the colourful shawls and odd trinkets that hung from the ceiling and over to the bed of the caravan, where he spotted a full head of black hair amongst the nest of pillows and blankets.

He cautiously moved closer, navigating past the weird collection of odds and ends that took up most of the space. 

"Come here child, no need to be afraid." He moved closer again, until he was standing in front of the bed and could fully see the woman. She was unlike anything he'd ever seen.

She had thick, long hair that almost seemed to float in the air and skin the colour of ebony. Her eyes looked black and twinkled in the dim light. Pink lips stretched in a wide smile to reveal pearly white teeth. She was draped in beaded shawls that matched one that pulled her hair back from her face in a makeshift headband. 

"I-I'm here wit' the costumes?" He stammered, nervously clenching and unclenching his fists.

She gazed at him for a second, lips twitching in a smile. "Yes, yes you are child. Sent by your brother?" He nodded. "You best be careful with that one, he has anger in him, too much anger to stay in him for long."

"What?"

A smile peaked at her lips again. "He's mad at the world." She said softly. "More angry than you can ever believe and one day that anger is going to change your life."

"H-How do ya' know this?" He asked, head spinning from the lack of clean air and the new revelations.

She merely tapped the side of her head. "I have been blessed with the sight."

"The sight?"

"A gift, or some believe a curse. I can see glimpses of the future and can change them if I wish."

Clint scratched the side of his arm and gulped. "Can... Could ya' read mine?"

She tilted her head in thought. "If I read your future, I would have the ability to change it. Would it matter to you if I did? I'd have the power to grant you happiness or snatch it away." Clint gulped again. The woman smirked. "I see that you won't change your mind, give me your hands." 

She held out pale hands decorated with multiple rings and beads. He nervously slid his palm into hers as she closed her eyes.

Her face turned serious, and she began murmuring, almost silently. "Very, very interesting. Your future has so many paths. So many possibilities." A crease formed between her eyebrows as she frowned. "The anger, the anger will change your life." Her fingers brushed over his wrists and up his arms, over his shoulders until they reached his collar bones. He resisted the urge to jerk away as she gently traced the two neat sentences etched over his collarbones beneath his clothes.

"You have so many choices to make, they must be made in the right order in order for you to meet them in the right way. I'm seeing flashes of scarlet hair and snow, sharp suits and diners." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You will experience so much heartache, loss and pain in your life if you want them. If you give up, you'll never find them. You have to be broken in order to be fixed." Her eyes opened, and Clint felt like the inky blackness was pulling him in. She grabbed his wrists and pulled him close, staring into his eyes. "You must stay throughout it all if you want them. You must survive the pain if you ever want to be happy. If you stop Barney, you'll never meet your Soulmates."

"What? Stop Barney when? From what?" He cried, trying to jerk away from her grip, but it was like steel.

"You'll know when the time comes. It will be the biggest decision that you'll ever make, but you must make the wrong choice in order for it to be the right choice."

"What does that mean? It don't make sense!"

She smiled. "It will make sense when the time comes." The psychic released his hands and smiled at him. He jerked back and rubbed his wrists, eyes watering.

"I don't understand."

She gently caressed his cheek and wiped away the tears. "You'll understand soon. Now leave the costumes outside and go find The Swordsman. He will be the start of your journey."

"The swordsman?" She said nothing, simply rose to her feet and elegantly hustled him out of the caravan.

She pushed out into the now cold night air and he spun around to face her.

"Go." She commanded. "Heed my word, or you'll never find your Soulmates."

He stumbled away, leaving the costumes with her and scrubbing at his eyes to get rid of the tears. He inhaled deeply, relishing the clean air. 

With her words still ringing in his mind, he went to find The Swordsman.

******

Clint pulled his coat around him, bracing against the cold bite of the air. He had been walking for hours, his hitched ride leaving him about ten miles down the long stretch of road. He was cold, hungry and almost penniless. 

As he had been for the past year and a half.

At nineteen years old, he didn't have a lot going for him. Clint had the clothes on his back, his bag of tricks and his odd set of skills which weren't exactly the mainstream talents that employers searched for.

So he trudged onwards, giving himself a couple minutes to whine about his life before he mentally shook himself from his self-pitying stupor. He heaved his duffle bag onto his shoulder and moved into a quicker march, determined to make it somewhere warm before nightfall.

As the sky turned into a dusky pink, he spotted a bright light ahead, maybe half a mile. He sped up, almost jogging before he saw the building. It was made of old brick, two stories high and it had an old sign hanging from it's doorway in the traditional tavern style. It read Sam's Bar.

Perfect.

He walked through the parking lot slowly, taking note of all of the cars before pulling the door open and stepping inside, sighing as the warmth of the room surrounded him. 

Several of the patrons turned around to see what the sudden gust of cold was caused by and stared at him, noting his heavy bag, second hand clothes and obvious hearing aides. He nodded at the men in various stages of sobriety and age before moving over to the bar where a surly man stood behind the counter.

"What can I get you?" He asked as Clint dropped the bag on the counter next to him and slid into a seat.

"I'll have a pint of whatever you've got on tap, thanks." He slid over a crumpled bill which the man swiftly snatched up before getting his drink. He dropped the glass in front of Clint before he moved further down the bar to resume a conversation with an old man.

He felt eyes on him as he sipped at his drink and just waited, biding his time. 

He heard the heavy thumps of workman boots hitting the floor followed by the sudden clatter as someone slid into the barstool next to him.

"You're not from 'round here, are ya?"

He remained facing forwards, smiling as he took another sip of beer. "Is it that obvious?"

The voice laughed, deep and gruff. "To the locals it is. What brings you here?" Clint turned to face the man. He was tall and covered in muscles that came from years of hard manual labour. Clint could tell because he had matching ones. He had a face full of beard and calculating eyes. He glanced down at the word COULD peaking out of his sleeve on the man's right arm.

"I'm just passing through, I'm travelling for work."

"What work do ya do?"

He shrugged. "This and that, what about you?"

The man smirked. "I hunt game for a living."

"You must be a good shot then."

The man laughed again. "The best."

Clint shrugged. "I'm a pretty decent shot myself."

"Oh yeah? As good as me?" Challenge glimmered in his eyes.

The ex- carnie simply shrugged, taking another sip of his beer.

"If you want to test it, we have a dartboard in the back." His tone had changed, making the statement almost into a dare.

Clint smirked. "If you're sure."

"Damn right I'm sure!" The man crooned before thrusting a hand out. "The name's Trent."

He shook Trent's meaty hand with a grin. "Robert."

"Well come on Robbie boy, let's go have a good old fashioned contest!" He said before jumping to his feet and leading Clint past the bar and through a doorway. He followed Trent down the hallway and into another room, this one with two other men playing a game of pool and a dartboard hung on a wall.

"Guys, this is Robbie. He reckons he could beat me in a game of darts." The two men paused their game of pool to shake Clint's hand. 

The three men were eerily similar in that they were all of similar height and build with the facial hair to match. 

"Nice to meet ya', I'm Gus."

"Robbie."

"Call me Wren."

"Nice to meet ya'." He replied, shaking both of their hands before dropping his duffle bag in the corner and stripping out of his coat and gloves. Unwinding his scarf, he turned to face the men. "I gotta' warn ya', I'm a little out of practise with darts."

"Don't worry man, it's just a little friendly game." Gus said, sending Wren and Trent a small smirk that Clint didn't miss.

"Yeah, I'll take it easy on ya, Robbie."

"Alright." He said before moving to stand next to Trent in front of the dartboard. "After you."

"If you insist." He replied, moving over and grabbing the darts. He threw the first three very deliberately, doing well but not great. Clint knew the tactic well and deliberately did only slightly better than him. The game progressed quickly, with Trent playing averagely on purpose.

The three men were trying to con him.

Luckily, Clint knew it. He also knew how to out-con them.

After winning the first game, Clint turned to them with a smirk. "I guess I'm not so out of practise then." He said with a small laugh. Trent smiled falsely and shook his hand.

"Well done man, guess you are better than me."

Clint paused, surveying the three men as if he was deep in thought. "Fancy playing another game? But making it a little more... Interesting?" Wren and Gus exchanged pleased smirks as Trent pretended to act weary about it.

"I don't know Robbie, how much were you thinking?"

Clint shrugged. "I don't know. Fifty bucks? A hundred?"

Trent stuck his palm out. "Deal."

The ex-carnie then proceeded to lose spectacularly as Trent wiped the floor with him, getting a near perfect score in no time. Clint mentally berated them, they could have made even more if they hadn't showed their hand early! But Clint still hadn't showed his hand, and wouldn't until he made everything that he could from these three amateurs.

Trent smirked as he acted surprised. "Sorry man, must be luck or something." He moved closer and slung an arm over Clint's shoulder. "If you want, you can win your money back. Double or nothing?"

He tilted his head in thought, gazing at the three men with their greedy smiles. He threw his hands up. "Sure, why not?"

Once again, Clint lost.

The next game too.

And the one after that.

It was the fifth game when Clint owed them sixteen hundred dollars that he decided to show his hand.

"One more?" He asked.

Trent sent him a cruel smile. "If you want."

"I'll start." Clint said, winking at Gus and Wren.

He destroyed Trent. He scored a nine dart finish, leaving all three men with their mouths hanging open and fists clenching. He pulled the darts from the board and turned to face them with a smile.

"I believe you owe me sixteen hundred dollars."

Wren's mouth contorted into an ugly glare. "You fucking conned us."

He shrugged. "Hardly, I just won a game of darts."

"You lost on purpose!" Gus shouted, making Clint smirk.

"Isn't that what you did the first game?" He asked Trent, who took a threatening step forward. 

"I ain't giving you a fucking dime." He growled.

"You owe me that money."

"You conned it outta' us!"

Clint shrugged again. "I didn't force you to keep playing. That was on you. Now give me the money you owe me." It was then that the three men advanced, moving forward as one as Trent swung his fist.

He easily sidestepped, grabbing the beefy man's wrist and bringing down his hand in a precise strike on his forearm, Trent screamed as the bone broke. He collapsed, unconscious from the pain and the remaining two glanced at each before moving continuing to advance.

Wren hung back as Gus went for a different tactic and tried to punch his stomach. The ex-carnie batted away the punch easily and swung up his leg to kick Gus sharply between the legs. He promptly fell to his knees when Clint grabbed his head and brought it down to meet his rising knee.

He let his motionless body drop to the floor before looking up to meet Wren's eyes. "You want a go?" He asked, gesturing with his hands as they raised into fists.

The other man shakily raised his fists and Clint arched an eyebrow.

"Really? Okay." He shrugged before darting forward and catching Wren's cheekbone in a sharp right hook. He flopped to the side and hit his head against the wall, the painful Crack echoing through the room.

Clint quickly dropped to his knees and searched all three men, grabbing a pair of car keys, flipping through their wallets and pocketing the money. He dropped the now empty wallets onto the unconscious men before grabbing his coat, gloves and bag and walking out. He shrugged into his coat and gloves and quickly walked away, leaving the men where they lay.

Somebody would find them. Eventually.

He ignored the concerned looks from the other patrons and walked out into the cold. He walked over to the oversized Jeep that Trent's driving license said was his and unlocked it, sliding into the drivers seat and dropping his bag into the passenger seat he pulled out of the parking lot and drove away into the night.

He quickly counted the money out with one hand as he kept one eye on the road. Two thousand dollars between the three of them, it would be enough to keep him going for a while.

******

Clint continued with that method, targeting small town men who wanted to prove something. He left a trail of broken bodies and angry men in his wake, at least one story about him in almost every town that he passed through.

Most of them couldn't remember much about him. Just his sandy brown hair and his name, which changed almost every time.

Jack.

Eliot.

Luke.

Aidan.

Feargus.

Robbie.

Now he was in New York City just as the snow began to stick to the ground, having journeyed all the way up there from Louisiana, which was where his last foster home was when he was seventeen.

Sometimes he spent a couple of weeks in one town, working as a waiter, or as manual labour, as anything if it paid. He waited there until he scraped enough for a bus ticket or until somebody offered him a ride. He didn't know what he was looking for, just that he had to get to New York. It was a feeling, deep in his gut, that there was something for him there.

Now he was here, and he had no idea what to do with himself.

Clint had never thought about what would happen when he got here, just that he needed to get here. Now he was.

A deep rumble in his stomach told him his first answer, which was to find the nearest place where he could eat. He wandered through the city, dismissing restaurants as too busy, too loud, too expensive, until he came across a small overnight diner.

He ducked inside and smiled. It was cute. With black and white chequered tile and vinyl red booths it was like something from the sixties. It was perfect and the food would be good if the smells wafting from the kitchen were anything to go by.

A short brunette with curves for days, a red lipped smile and Christmas reindeer antlers in her hair approached him. "Hey, sit where you like and I'll bring you a menu." He smiled back and slid into the closest booth, one that face away from the door. She returned with a menu and a steaming cup of coffee.

"You look like you need some caffeine." She said with a wink before sliding the cup and the menu in front of him.

"Thanks." He said, flipping through the menu quickly. "I'll have the pancakes, a double cheeseburger, a chocolate milkshake and two portions of fries please."

Her eyebrows raised. "Anything else? Or is that enough for you?"

He looked up at her before glancing back down at the menu. "I'll have the double chocolate fudge cake too please. Oh, and some chocolate ice cream please." She quickly scribbled it down and took the menu, tucking it beneath her arm.

"I'll have it with you in jiffy, give us a holler if you need anything else." She disappeared into the back and he rested his head against the booth with a sigh. His eyes fluttered shut and exhaustion tugged at his bones.

He barely registered when the bell of the door indicated that somebody had entered.

He did notice when somebody slid into the seat on the opposite side of the table. Clint's eyes snapped open as he eyed up the man in front of him. He was older than him, probably in his mid thirties, he out his age around thirty four. He had a thick head of hair and ice cold blue eyes that didn't reveal any emotion.

He wore a sharp black suit that made him look like something from the men in black and his face remained blank.

The waitress darted out again with another menu and a cup of coffee. "Hey, here's a cup of coffee and a menu, can I get you anything else?."

The man's gaze didn't waver from Clint's as he spoke. "I'm good thanks, just the coffee is fine."

"He's on his way out anyway." Clint said, glaring at the man.

The waitress picked up the menu and awkwardly glanced between the two. "Alrighty then, I'll be in the back if you need me." With that, she quickly walked away, sending them a nervous glance over her shoulder.

The two men stared at each other in silence for a good few minutes before the mysterious man broke the silence.

"It's been hard work trying to find you. You disappeared before I got the chance to talk to you in Louisiana."

Clint's eyebrows drew inwards as he frowned. "Who are you and why have you been trying to find me?" He stared at the man as he flinched, eyes going wide. "What? What did I say?"

The man's face slowly stretched into a wide smile that took ten years from his age. He reached over to his left arm and slowly, methodically rolled up his sleeve.

"What are you doing?" Clint asked, getting more and more confused by the second. "Seriously though, who the fuck are you?" He asked, voice slowly raising.

The man's smile grew impossibly wider and he held out his arm. "My name is Philip Coulson and I'm your Soulmate."

Clint felt his eyes widen and he leaned forward to stare at the words that were scrawled over Phil's (he had instantly thought of him as a Phil) inner arm. It was a messy scrawl that matched Clint's handwriting letter for letter.

Who are you and why have you been trying to find me?

Was etched into Phil's skin like a brand, marking him as Clint's.

He said nothing, just pulled the top of his shirt down to show his right collarbone. In a neat, tidy line was his words. Words that he somehow didn't recognise instantly when they came form Phil's mouth.

It's been hard work trying to find you.

Phil grinned happily. "You don't understand how you've saved me."

Clint sighed. "You don't understand how much you've saved me too." 

Their eyes met and matching, splitting smiles spread over their faces just as the waitress began bringing out the masses of food.

"You two look happier." She commented with a smile.

Phil stretched out a hand over the table and Clint clasped their hands together. He sighed as an overwhelming sense of rightness filled him. 

"You have no idea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of questions that I've left in this chapter, but it'll all be explained in the next chapter. 
> 
> Beware, there is lot's and lot's of angst coming up.
> 
> Thanks for reading and leave a comment <3
> 
> ~ Ruth


	3. Natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm only posting half of this chapter because I'm tired and have zero motivation.   
> It's my 16th in ten days! Whoo! Going to have a gathering and make bad decisions, I'm so excited. However, I'm ill and have twenty two exams over a two week period, so that is less fun. 
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you enjoy reading, comments feed inspiration and have a lovely day! :)

"Again." The sergeant commanded in Russian, snapping the ruler tightly over her flesh.

Her eyes didn't water and she didn't flinch.

However, a spatter of blood flew from the weeping wound on the centre of her back and sprayed the mirror, adding another coat to the dried blood that already marred the surface.

It stung, but the fact that she would have to clean up her own blood later hurt her pride worse.

Nobody liked staying in the training room for any longer than they had too. With good reason.

Although she couldn't see the sky, she knew that the streets would be darkening now. the light misty day leaching away into an inky black that slunk it's way around the city, almost hiding the small village from the bleak main roads.

The large room was windowless, the only light coming from bright, artificial lights that gave her headaches. They cast a cold light onto the training room, the large mirrors that spanned the four rooms reflecting the harsh light.

The floors were made of a hard wood that was designed to hurt to land on, no matter how easily you fell.

Natalia knew that first hand.

Then again, most of the girls of the Red Room did.

"Again Natalia." The sergeant spat, in Spanish this time, cracking the ruler harshly over her back again with a cruel frown. "Correctly, this time." He demanded, gesturing at the other girl in front of her. She was taller than Natalia by a few inches with a pretty mouth marred by an ugly scowl.

"I'm waiting." The sergeant drawled, the Serbian words dropping cruelly from his tongue as he cracked the ruler again. Another spray of blood hit the mirror and she restrained the flinch before sinking into the traditional fighting stance; feet apart, leaning lightly on the balls of her feet with her hands held up by her jaw. The other girl sank into a similar position before advancing forward slowly, meeting her in the centre.

The other girl moved first, lashing out sharply with her right fist. It was an easy hit, meant to assess her abilities. Natalia simply ducked beneath it, before quickly stepping forward and sending a sharp jab to the other girl's ribs. She evaded easily, returning with a swift kick to her thigh. Natalia side-stepped out of the way and sent a right hook flying the other girls way. She ducked beneath it and the two girls continued on, moving in perfect tandem in a dance that neither of them knew the steps too.

The sergeant glared at them all the while, occasionally correcting the brunette's form and shouting at them to land a hit. It became clear that he had grown bored of watching the girls move around the room when he suddenly spoke, his voice quiet and all too threatening. "If one of you doesn't land a hit soon, you will both spend the night in the pit." His English was perfect and accentless. The girl froze for a second, eyes widening at the threat.

The pit was, essentially, a hole in the ground. It burrowed about nine feet underground with rusting pipes running up the height of it that dripped constantly, leaving the muddy bottom of it soaked, which made it impossible to sleep in. All of the girls at the Red Room had spent at least a night in there and had spent the rest of their time avoiding another stay in it. Natalia still had nightmares about the pit, the crushing darkness and paralysing sense of loneliness that plagued her sleep.

The icy cold water mixed with the below freezing temperature had given some of the weaker girls hypothermia, most of which didn't last the night.

That didn't happen to Natalia though, Natalia was strong.

She took advantage of the girl's frozen state and leapt forward, sending a sharp kick to the other girl's head. It was easily blocked, but the redhead didn't give her time to recover, she pressed on, sending a volley of vicious kicks and punches. The other girl fought hard, but barely managed to keep Natalia at bay, her growing exhaustion clear in the heavy way she carried her limbs.

The redhead was relentless though, and finally broke through her defence, punching the girl square in the nose with a mechanical precision. She followed it with a chop to her neck that made her bend over, grabbing her neck and coughing as she choked. She then grabbed her head and brought down to meet her knee before pulling her back up and digging her fingers into the sensitive pressure point at the juncture of her shoulder and neck. The girl whimpered, scrabbling at her tormentor to release her. When Natalia finally dropped her, she hit the ground hard before herself dragging across the floor in a pointless gesture of escape. Natalia stopped before turning to face the sergeant.

He nodded at her, the highest way he showed his praise. "Finish her."

Natalia nodded, moving forward as the girl began begging.

"Please, no." She gasped, tears running down her face as she hunched over, grasping her neck. "I'll be better. I swear, please stop."

Natalia paid no heed to her plea, still advancing. Seeing that her begging was having no affect, the other girl struggled to stand, weakly raising her fists as the redhead approached. Natalia batted her away her first punch and caught the second one before it landed, arching her wrist and neatly breaking the girl's arm. She shrieked, yanking her hand back and backing away, clutching her wounded hand to her chest as the other hand raised in defence.

The redhead broke into a run and jumped, both legs wrapping around the girl's neck as Natalia threw her body backwards and towards the hard, wooden floor, bringing the girl's body flying towards the ground. Her head hit the ground with a sharp crack and a horrendous crunching sound filled the air as her neck broke.

Natalia carefully unwrapped her legs and rose to her feet, facing her instructor with her head bowed.

"That was nearly acceptable." The sergeant growled, the Russian accent giving his words a cruel edge. "One night in the pit for holding back."

Natalia said nothing, simply bowed her head and marched out, fingers clenching at the prospect of another night in the pit.

******

Natalia stood with her arms behind her back, head bowed and feet shoulder width apart. She had been stood in here for three minutes and forty seconds.

Not that she was counting.

The room was one that she had never seen before and she easily repressed the urge to look around and become intimate with every detail. That was done in the first ten seconds of being there. It was clearly somebody's office, with a large black desk in front of her, clearly a standard issue one. Filing cabinets lined the wall to the right of her and to the left was an old coat-stand with ornate carving on the curving hooks. The walls were an unpleasant bottle green and bare. She had already assessed any potential weapons and was satisfied with waiting for somebody to appear.

The curiosity, however, prickled at the base of her neck like an itch longing to be scratched. Who was she waiting for? The sergeant had said nothing, simply came to the girl's room and gestured for her to get dressed and follow him. She had done, quickly and silently, modesty no longer an issue after one girl had been beaten senseless after asking for a separate room to change in. Natalia hurried past the empty beds (They used to be full, didn't they?) and quickly followed the sergeant down the quiet halls of The Red Room. He stopped outside one of the many nondescript doors and gestured her in before striding away. She watched him walk away for a second before opening the door and slipping in.

The sergeant's step was completely mute, surprisingly so for a man of his height and weight. He was tall, Natalia had never dared ask how tall, with lean, muscles that rippled across his chest. His eyes were a pale, cruel blue and he rarely spoke. His hair hung in limp black strands around his face and his arm glimmered with silver. The girls had often gossiped about how he had lost his arm, some saying that it had been over an important assassination gone wrong, others saying he was injected with poison and had to cut it off before it infected the rest of his body. Natalia's favourite story was the one where he went on a mission in the mountains that had gone wrong, and had had to scale down a steep ravine in order to survive.

Nobody knew the truth though.

Nobody dared ask.

Natalia tensed before quickly relaxing as a gentle gust of wind hit her back from the door opening. The person opening it, however, made no noise and strode in, their footsteps undetectable. The redhead tensed, feeling the subtle changes in the air currents as the person prowled through the room. A sharp gust of wind hit the back of her head and she hit the ground, lightning fast. The hand flew above her head with curled fingers, sharp nails arched towards the palm of a tanned hand.

She rolled over, sliding gracefully to her feet and facing her attacker and - hopefully - the person she was waiting for.

He was tall.

That was the only descriptive word that could be used to describe him. He was nondescript in every way and extraordinarily average. His hair was sandy brown that could have been blond as well as brunet, depending on the lighting. It was a good head of hair, but not too thick. His nose fit his face, with a slight bump in the ridge and his eyes were blue, with flecks of green. His mouth was parted slightly as he panted and his skin was free of freckles and the colour of tea with lots and lots of milk in it.

All in all, he would have been completely forgettable if Natalia had met in different circumstances. 

As it was, the redhead never forgot anybody that she considered a threat to her, and right now he was top of the list.

He advanced, shooting out a sharp punch to her neck that she stepped backwards to avoid, followed by a roundhouse kick that would have knocked her out cold. She simply ducked beneath it, leaping forward and vaulting over the desk. He landed swiftly, moving quicker than anybody she had ever seen and met her on the other side of the desk. His face showed no emotion and she was sure that her face mirrored his. It wasn't often that the Sergeant surprised her with a new competitor, but it did happen. But Natalia still had no orders to fight him, so she wouldn't. She would block his hits and avoid him if possible, but she wouldn't hurt him without orders. One girl had fought without permission but Natalia struggled to remember what she looked like.

The man said nothing, just advanced again. This time he struck out with his fist, swinging in a textbook perfect right hook. She ducked beneath and backed away.

He followed, his hand a blur of movement as he flattened his palm and fingers and aimed for her neck. With her back against the wall, she had no option but to hit back by batting the jab away, just as quickly. She twisted away from the wall and whirled back to face him, face remaining neutral. Their fight continued for what felt like hours, him sending brutal attack after brutal attack that Natalia effortlessly avoided, blocked and twisted away from. Soon he stopped attacking, crinkles formed around his eyes as his lips tilted in the barest hint of smile.

"Good job." He said, his voice had the power of warm milk. He spoke in Russian, but that rarely meant anything when it came to nationality in The Red Room. Natalia might have been Russian, but she could have been from anywhere in the world. His smile turned sadistic. "Now for the real test, you may fight." With that, he pulled out a short, serrated knife and attacked.

********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two fight scenes, I know. I think I'm getting better at them (practice makes perfect etc) but still tell me if and how I need to improve. 
> 
> Comments feed inspiration, have a great day <3

**Author's Note:**

> I know I shouldn't start a new fic, but I'm suffering horrendous writer's block for all of my other fics, but hopefully I'll have some inspiration for them during the Christmas holidays.
> 
> Anyway, merry Christmas!  
> I'm so excited for Captain America Civil War.
> 
> So, leave a comment on what you think, be gentle and have a great day!  
> Love you guys! <3
> 
> ~Ruth


End file.
